


Until the End

by the_rotten1



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Apocalypse, Suicidal Thoughts, hints of incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rotten1/pseuds/the_rotten1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider is a rich and famous director, but that doesn't prevent him from doing an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle when everything goes to shit. There are juggalos everywhere, his actors are getting killed, and he doesn't think his young bro will ever survive growing up alone in his apartment. Luckily, Rose is there to talk some sense into him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the End

There are days when Dave wakes with a sense of foreboding. Red light filters through his window, filling his apartment with oppressive heat. The air is so thick it’s suffocating. Everything around him seems surreal, like there’s an ominous presence surrounding him, a hidden threat that he can’t place. The sound of sirens in the distance adds to a sense of urgency. He looks out the window and the sky is burning. The inevitable heat death of the universe is upon him.

Dave stumbles out of bed, each groggy movement full of trepidation as he moves past the bathroom door and declines the comfort of his daily routine. He shambles up the stairs and onto the roof. Dave was wasted last night. He has a massive hangover, but that’s no excuse. He should’ve brushed his teeth. He should’ve changed out of the dirty suit he fell asleep in and he should’ve fucking showered because he smells like shit. He also feels like shit, so he decides it’s ironically appropriate that his scent matches his mood.

It’s sweltering and bright as fuck outside, just like he knew it would be. He walks to the edge of the roof and looks down at the city below. People are scurrying around like ants. Cars are scurrying around like slightly larger ants. He can’t shake the idea that they’re all about to get squashed and they don’t even know.

Dave reaches into his pocket and pulls out his iphone, bringing up the pesterchum app. There’s only one person he can talk to when he gets like this. Normally he would try to avoid talking to her because she’s going to psychoanalyze him again, but he’s too hungover to care.

TG: rose  
TG: are you there?  
TG: come on i know youre not busy  
TG: youre probably sitting at your desk writing one of your pompous wizard fics  
TG: cant believe youre making bank on those  
TG: rose  
TG: i cant take it anymore  
TT: Can’t take what, Dave?   
TG: it  
TG: you know  
TG: the mysterious and elusive it that everyones talking about  
TT: If it’s any consolation I thought you always had “it”. I’m not sure why you can no longer take “it”.   
TG: fuck you  
TT: Is that an offer?   
TG: no its like  
TG: there are clowns everywhere  
TG: we got juggalos up the ass over here  
TG: everyday more people are applying shitty carnival makeup and donning hatchetgear  
TG: you see them on the streets  
TG: at the park  
TG: in the grocery store buying assloads of faygo  
TT: Unfortunately the situation is no different in New York. They have taken over the streets. It is disconcerting.   
TG: its more than disconcerting its a fucking invasion  
TG: like invasion of the bodysnatchers only with horrorcore and the bad rap lyrics  
TG: the situation is critical  
TG: code red  
TG: take evasive action cause the self-destruct button has been activated and this shits about to blow  
TT: I understand. Anyone would be upset by the recent turn of events.   
TG: no you dont understand  
TG: its reached catastrophic levels  
TG: you cant go anywhere without being surrounded by them  
TT: I know. It’s part of her plan. The takeover was inevitable.   
TG: yesterday i saw an entire family of juggalos  
TG: papa j momma 2 dope j jr little miss harlequin and even their dog was dressed like a jester  
TT: Go on.   
TG: they facepainted their fuckin dog rose  
TG: thats cruelty to animals  
TG: they were all walking down the street hand in hand like circus came to town  
TG: but wait thats not the circus its the dark carnival  
TG: then the dog stopped to take a shit on the sidewalk  
TG: and the rest of the family pulled down their pants and collectively took a shit right there with it  
TT: Dear Lord.   
TG: this is what our society has come to rose  
TG: our public places are being used as outhouses  
TG: the world wasnt meant to last against nuclear families of juggalos  
TT: I concur with your assessment. However, I’m uncertain how I may assist you.   
TG: if i see one more juggalo literally shitting in public i swear im gonna do an acrobatic fuckin pirouette off the edge of this rooftop and onto the streets below  
TG: itll be a sad loss for the community  
TG: but on the bright side ill make an artistically astute red splotch on the pavement  
TG: itll be my final contribution to fine art  
TG: maybe if im lucky i can avoid dying in a pile of juggalo shit  
TT: Are you currently on the roof of your apartment?   
TG: yes  
TT: I would be tremendously relieved if you would step away from the edge.   
TG: shit  
TG: how did you know i was on the edge?  
TG: can you see me with your seer powers?   
TT: Please step away.   
TG: ok i will

Dave sighs in frustration and steps away from the edge. He wanders back towards the door leading down to his apartment and leans against it, glaring up into the sunlight. It would probably burn his eyes if he weren’t wearing his shades. Never in his life has he been more grateful that Ben Stiller gave him these shitty things.

TG: there  
TG: im away from the edge  
TG: now what  
TT: I would like you to head indoors. Walk down the stairs and into the living room.   
TG: why do i have to go back inside?   
TG: maybe i like it out here  
TT: I think it would be better for your own safety.   
TG: fuck  
TG: fine

He curses under his breath as he reluctantly re-enters the building. Dave doesn’t know why he lets her talk him out of things. He angrily taps at the on-screen keyboard as he descends the stairs.

TG: i wasnt gonna do it  
TG: i just said if i see another juggalo shitting in public i was gonna do an acrobatic fucking pirouette  
TT: To whom do you think you are speaking?   
TG: uh  
TG: my sister  
TT: Also known as the reigning queen of insincere suicide threats. I think I would recognize a sincere suicide threat when I read one.   
TG: well fuck  
TG: guess i just got schoolfed up the bone bulge  
TG: shit rose did you really think i would jump?  
TT: Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did you really think I’d take that chance?   
TG: nah  
TG: you are all hells of overprotective  
TG: one thing though  
TG: why do you want me in the living room?   
TT: Are you there?   
TG: yeah  
TT: I want you to imagine a baby.   
TG: oh fuck  
TT: A poor, defenseless little infant. Naked, but for the diaper covering his little bottom.   
TG: not again  
TT: This child has no family. He has no friends or caretakers in his immediate vicinity.   
TT: There is no culture for him to assimilate nor a public to adore him, for this child was born into a world in which all other humans are extinct, save one other individual who lives several thousand miles away.   
TG: hes gonna die  
TT: He will not die.   
TG: i dont care how much you say it  
TG: no one can survive without a guardian  
TG: hes gonna die and hes gonna be a cute little pile of bones on the floor of my apartment  
TT: We both know that isn’t true. How could the conditions of the game be fulfilled if there were no players?   
TG: maybe the players arent them  
TG: maybe the players are someone else  
TT: That isn’t how it works. We are connected to them, and they to us. We had our chance. Now it’s their turn to shine.   
TG: even if thats true how is he gonna survive with no one to change his diaper?   
TG: i dont even wanna think about the mess hes gonna make  
TT: Then I suggest you put some newspaper down in the bathroom.   
TG: gross  
TG: come on rose  
TG: theres no one to feed him  
TG: no one to rock him to sleep or tuck him in at night  
TG: babies die without love  
TG: wasnt there an experiment?   
TG: they fed babies and changed them but never gave them any affection  
TG: and half of them died  
TT: I can only assume you’re referring to the fabled “Russian baby experiment”.  
TT: For obvious reasons, such an experiment would be deemed unethical. There is no record of it ever being performed on human infants.  
TT: However, there was a similar study done on baby monkeys and those raised in isolation were physically healthy, if socially disturbed.  
TT: Further research showed that a virtual caretaker made of cloth and wood could partially reverse their social aversion and contact with a monkey who was not raised in isolation could help them develop social skills.  
TG: my bro isnt a monkey rose  
TG: hes a fuckin HUMAN BEING  
TG: and im pretty sure human babies need love  
TT: Human infants are more resilient than many people realize. Your brother will be more robust than most. He will survive.  
TG: how?  
TT: One day that child will grow to become a young man. He will search the internet for information about his predecessor.  
TG: oh god  
TT: What will he find?  
TG: here we go  
TT: The story of a man who faced his fears and challenged the corrupt authority figures of his time?  
TT: Or the story of a man who gave up?  
TT: A coward who hid away in his apartment and rushed to his death.  
TG: someone tell me we arent having this conversation  
TT: Oh, but we are having this conversation.  
TT: We are having this conversation right fucking now.  
TG: wow  
TG: shit just got real  
TT: He has so little to hold onto.  
TT: Why don’t you give him this one thing?  
TT: Is that so hard?  
TG: what no  
TG: ok yes  
TG: i feel useless  
TG: theres nothing we can do  
TG: the batterwitch is gonna fuck it all up anyway  
TG: our society is over  
TG: done  
TG: i cant save the world  
TT: No, Dave. You cannot.  
TT: But you can save the future.  
TT: You can give one lonely child a mentor to look up to. An ideal to which he may aspire. You can give him hope.  
TG: how can i give him hope when i dont have any  
TG: that literally makes no sense  
TG: i can give him a bunch of sbahj merch and some him shitty jpeg artifacts  
TG: plus a fuckton of orange soda  
TG: but what good is that   
TG: all it means is he wont have to drink his own piss in waterworld  
TT: There are plenty of things you can give him.  
TT: He needs a brother’s love.  
TT: Whether you provide that love in person or through a bevy of cheaply manufactured merchandise, it is tangible.  
TG: theres nothing tangible about it  
TG: i cant hold him  
TG: i cant be there for him  
TG: i cant even talk to him face to face  
TG: im gonna be like patrick swayze in ghost  
TG: only theres no whoppi goldberg to do the medium thing so i cant protect him  
TG: i cant even possess her body for the hot makeout scene with demi moore that was about as close to letting lesbian action into the mainstream media as it got in the early 1990s  
TT: I think we’re veering off topic.  
TT: Hot lesbian makeouts aside, may I assume you are no longer a threat to yourself?  
TG: yes  
TG: i am no longer a threat to myself or society  
TG: can I go now  
TT: You are the one who contacted me, Dave.   
TT: But yes, you may go.

He shuts off the pesterchum app with a huff. She always manages to make him feel guilty for getting discouraged. It’s embarrassing. Dave asks himself if he really was going to jump. He doesn’t know. He’s going to die anyway. What difference does it make how he goes? How is it fair that he exists solely to be a background character in someone else’s story? How is his death in any way inspiring? Everything he does is futile. The world will be destroyed.

It wouldn’t matter so much if he didn’t have so much to lose. Dave loves being a director. He loves his movies and his actors and his stupid museum of irony. He loves being able to manufacture a shitton of jpeg artifacts for a negative cost and make a fortune off them. He loves being alive. More importantly, he loves the society he lives in. It isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t want to see it fall apart. He doesn’t want to watch his world turn into the Land of Juggalos and Free Flowing Faygo. He might be able to handle it if he died alone because he’s already died plenty of times, but everyone and everything he loves is going with him.

Dave sits on his couch and stares at the ceiling. He could rot here in the heat. Maybe he’ll never get up. What if he just decided he couldn’t go on anymore? What if his muscles refused to budge? He would probably die of dehydration in a few days. His eyes would close and he’d go to sleep. The heat would dry his skin, sucking the moisture out of him. He’d end up looking like one of those mummies they pull out of Egyptian tombs. Ew, gross. He doesn’t want his corpse to look like the crypt keeper. Dave sits up, grabs the remote, and turns on the TV. There’s nothing interesting on, but it makes a nice distraction.

He spends the rest of the day on the couch watching TV and taking naps. Sometime later he finally gets tired of the noise and turns the TV off. There’s nothing left to do but stare at the floor and feel inadequate. What will his bro be like 400 years from now? Will he scurry across the floor, paw at the carpet, and suck his thumb? Dave sits up, stares at the floor, and tries to imagine it. He fails miserably. Instead he imagines baby Dirk dying slowly because he doesn’t have anyone to care for him.

“Sorry I can’t be there for you bro. I know it’s fucked up. I wish I could rip the Batterwitch’s heart out for creating the post-apocalyptic wasteland she’s gonna leave you in, but I can’t, because apparently no matter what I do, I’m gonna die.”

There’s a brief pause. Dave feels pathetic. He’s sitting here talking to himself pretending that his future bro can hear him. He knows it’s stupid, but it’s just something he has to get off his chest.

“I’m sorry for the life you’re gonna live. I’m sorry no one will be there for you. I’m sorry the only other person on the planet is gonna be so far away.” It sickens him to think about it. Dave can only imagine that kind of loneliness. Even with millions of adoring fans he feels isolated. Just imagine how Dirk will feel with no one. “I’m sorry I can’t save you. I’m sorry I can’t save the world. I’m sorry I can’t time travel far enough to get to you. I’m so _fucking_ sorry.”

His voice cracks. Dave is a mess. He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and lays back down on the couch. He can’t think about the future and not be horrified. How can anyone get hope out of this? The only thing he sees is death.

The thing about time is that everything is inevitable. He knows this truth in and out, as certain as the ticking of a clock. You can’t run from time and you can’t hide from it forever. It will get you eventually. There is no way to make it stop. He can pause it for a while, skip backward and forward a ways, but it isn’t the same. It’s like being able to skip through an episode of your favorite TV show, but you can’t watch previous episodes or move on to the next one. There’s a limit to his power and no one escapes the ravages of time.

Sometimes Dave can feel it winding down. Each tick is another second lost. The hands move to the beat of his heart as if time itself is running through his blood. The suspense is killing him.

It would be easier to die now, before society degrades any further. Before life becomes even more unbearable. Before the world as he knows it comes to an end. He can’t change anything, so why should he continue to suffer? There isn’t any justice or reason in the war he’s fighting. Only pain, suffering, and ultimately failure.

The phone rings. It’s his producer. God damn it. Can’t he spend a day contemplating suicide without being interrupted?

“Yeah, what? Ok. I don’t fucking know. No we can’t recast Geromy, Donald is ire-fucking-placeable. We’ll do what we did when Stiller died and use the carboard cutouts as stand-ins. He only has a few more scenes. We can edit and recycle his old dialog. Shit. You’re right, it’s cliche. Now ask me if I give a fuck. The fans will eat this shit up and you know it. Gotta go.”

Dave hangs up the phone, slouches on the couch, and briefly thinks of strangling himself with one of his ties. It’d be ironic, but he’d chicken out before asphyxiation. That shit only works in the movies when there’s a psycho killer trying to strangle you. Not when you’re trying to strangle yourself. He could drown, but then who would see his handsome corpse? He doesn’t want it to be waterlogged and bulgy-eyed.

Maybe letting the Batterwitch kill him really is the best way to go. It would leave his body in prime condition and likely shed some attractively scattered splotches of blood, but death would be slow and painful. Dave is no stranger to pain, but he’s no fan of it. He doesn’t want to wait until he’s old and wrinkly to face the Condesce, but he can’t do it yet. Trying to face her earlier then he’s supposed to would only result in doomed timelines, and he prefers his near-subliminal protest campaign anyway. There are some things you just can’t change.

The greatest irony is that having the ability to manipulate time makes him feel helpless. What good is it to have the awesome power to change the future if you can’t use it to protect the things that mean the most to you? All he can do is change a bunch of inconsequential bullshit. He can’t change everything. He can’t fix what’s broken. There are lives at stake, but he can’t save them. What kind of sick, twisted entity would taunt him with this power only to make it impossible for him to do anything meaningful? It’s fucked up.

The daylight is fading and Dave has nearly convinced himself to give suicide a try. Sure, it will probably just create another dead Dave. He’s already seen a dozen of them. Not through any fault of his own. He fought as hard as he could. It was mostly imperial drones, rabid stalkers, and the odd street car that killed those poor, handsome time clones. He’s never killed himself before. How does he know it won’t work?

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his doorbell. Dave pries himself out of the comfortable cushions and uses the arm of the couch to hoist himself up onto his feet. He slouches as he walks. Each step he takes feels sluggish, like he’s trying to move through quicksand. He takes a moment to straighten his posture before he opens the door. It’s a good thing he did, because otherwise there’s no way he’d be able to face the stern sisterly figure standing in the doorway.

“Hello Dave.”

“How did you get here? I thought you were in New York.”

“I always make time for family.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“You haven’t invited me in.”

“Come sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

Dave steps out of the way while Rose walks into the apartment. He closes the door behind her and then wanders over to the fridge. Holy shit. She must really think he was going to do it. That’s the only reason she’d come all the way out to Texas. He didn’t even realize how much time he wasted lying around his apartment in a depressed stupor. Far more than it took her to get here, probably.

He shouldn’t be surprised. She’s always been onto him. Always been able to get under his skin like no one else. Why did he think he could pull the wool over her eyes? She knits laptop cozies with yarn made of that shit. She uses it nearly every day. She’s practically an expert on wool and its various applications.

“What’s your poison? I have water, milk, apple juice, hard apple cider, rum, vodka, tequila, and faygo on tap.”

“The water must have cost a pretty penny.”

“It’s been at a fuckin’ premium ever since they changed public water works to the public faygo factory. If I were investing in the stock market I’d buy up entire companies of bottled water. I’m so sick of carrying gallons into the shower and putting litters by the sink because I can’t wash myself without them. Have you ever tried showering in faygo? The first time it came through the pipes I was washing my hair and I came out covered in corn syrup and artificial flavors and colors from scalp to toe. My fingers stuck to everything. My clothes, the car, the bottles of water at the store. I couldn’t even hand the dude at the counter a twenty because it got stuck in the palm of my hand.”

“I can tell you haven’t showered recently. The smell gave it away.”

“Thanks. Caustic remarks about my hygiene are just what I need right now.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dave pours them each a glass of water. Might as well. It’s a luxury only rich assholes can afford these days. Finest shit available. He sets them on the coffee table and sits on the couch leaving about a foot and a half between him and Rose. There’s an awkward silence. He takes a sip.

“How have you been?”

“Fine. Just fuckin’ peachy. Not a care in the world.”

“I heard about Mr. Glover’s death. They say his last speech was touching.” 

“It was a real tear jerker.”

“Did it perchance prompt you to shed a tear?”

“Nah. Nary a drop of emotion-laden moisture escaped from my glistening orbs. They welled up a little, all shiny and tentative, but by the time I blinked there were no drops were to be found. My cheeks were dry as a bone in a catacomb, a place for dead things and decay.”

“I’ve heard that some catacombs can become damp, owing to the fact that they’re below water level.”

“Shut up.”

“You seem stressed.”

“Nah.”

“You always get like this when one of your actors dies.”

“You’re right. Nothing normal about that. It’s totally weird to mourn another dude’s passing. I should just get on with my life because it doesn’t matter.”

“Whining about it won’t bring him back.”

“I know.” He sighs, slumping so his face is dangerously close to the coffee table. Any lower and he could crack his head open on the sharp edge. He would be tempted to try it if his sister weren’t here. “What are we going to do?”

“We stick to the plan. Keep putting out anti-Crocker propaganda as long as we can until the collapse of society.”

“It’s already collapsing.”

“I know.”

There’s nothing left to say. They both know what’s coming. Rose, more so than Dave. Her seer powers have proven useful. He doesn’t bother doubting them anymore, even when she says impossible things, like how his bro is going to survive and raise himself. Dave protests because he doesn’t want it to happen like that, but there’s no fighting it. There’s no fighting anything anymore.

His movies are a desperate, last-ditch attempt to win an unwinnable war. He can’t fight the Batterwitch in person, so he fights with irony, fame, and overall shittiness. It’s the only thing he can do, but it’s never enough. Nothing is.

”Think of how good it will feel when you finally raise your shitty sword to her,” Rose says. “You wouldn’t want to bow out before you get the chance.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. How does raising a sword to anyone make life worth living? Am I supposed to find inspiration in my ability to hoist a pointy object skyward?”

”You’re supposed to find inspiration in the ability to fight back.”

”Well I don’t.

There’s another stretch of silence, more desolate than the last. Rose takes a sip of water. Dave sighs. He feels like an asshole, but he isn’t trying to be difficult. He’s just being honest about how he feels. If he doesn’t voice his concerns Rose can’t shred them with her unrelenting logic.

”Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?”

”No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Dave has never been so indecisive in his entire life, as he’s usually anything but decisive. “The problem isn’t that I can’t attack or that I’m depressed. The problem is that everything we do is futile. Nothing you can say will change what will happen and nothing will give me hope if we’re gonna fail. Being able to inspire some baby in the future or lift a sword in the air means nothing. That shit is going to happen anyway. What difference does it make if I’m the Dave to do it, or if it’s some other Dave? How many times have I already died in a misguided attempt to defy the alpha timeline. More than I can count. The dead Dave pile doesn’t stop from getting taller.”

“Is that reference really appropriate?”

Dave doesn’t answer. He knows it isn’t. The reference was shitty, but he just doesn’t give a fuck.

”I understand your consternation, but do you understand the effect all these dead Daves have on my psyche?”

”Fuck.” She had to pull the pity card. It’s the only way to get to him nowadays. Dave could give up on everything. His movies, his jpeg manufacturing plant, his stupid museum of irony. He could give up on life entirely. But he could never give up on her.

And he knows she’s hesitant to even mention her concerns. Rose doesn’t like talking about herself. She was always so stilted at the book signings, during interviews, at premieres, and any time she had to appear in public. People say it’s just her way of guarding her privacy and that he likes to keep an air of mystery about her daily life, but really? She just doesn’t let anyone in. No one but him.

”I’d prefer it if the dead Dave pile stopped from getting any taller.”

”Ok.” Dave straightens up and turns toward her so he can look her in the eye. He can imagine how she must feel, though it isn’t apparent in the expression on her face. She’s so reserved and stately that it’s impossible to tell what she might be thinking at any given moment. But he knows. He feels like shit for making her worry. Sometimes she seems so strong and resolute that it’s easy to forget that she’s human. Underneath the calm veneer she must be petrified.

She catches that look and tries to deny it. “I can do it on my own.”

”I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to.” Dave leans over and wraps his arms around her. Sometimes he feels like his sister is the only real friend he has. No one else understands. It’s scary at the end of the world, but at least they’re not alone. She curls into his chest. He can feel her breath against his shirt, slow and steady at first, but then it gets erratic. Shit, is she crying? No, that can’t be right. Maybe it’s just sniffling. Rose never cries. “It’s gonna be ok.”

“No it isn’t,” she says bitterly. She would know.

Dave hugs her tightly. This feels weird. She’s usually the one comforting him. When did the tables turn? This is so fucked up.

”Ok, it’s not gonna be ok. It’s gonna be complete and utter shit and we both know it. But whatever happens I’m gonna be there with you.” He means it. It’ll be a bitch, but he’ll stick around. Keep making his movies. Kill the juggalo presidents. Face off against the Condesce. Whatever. There’s no way he’s gonna check out early. He’ll never think about that again.

”Are you sure?”

”Yeah.” He says it with conviction. If she can do it then he can too. No more pussyfooting around like a goddamn coward. “I’ll be there through all the shenanigans and when the time comes I’ll be by your side.” He knows it won’t be pretty. Dying for what you believe in is pretty much bullshit no matter how you look at it, but he can’t let her do it alone. 

”Until the end?”

“Until the end.”


End file.
